


The Water's High

by fluorineandsilver (myfavoritedemons)



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, Awkward First Times, Bickering, Class Differences, Frottage, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nude Modeling, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2019-11-01 09:25:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17864759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myfavoritedemons/pseuds/fluorineandsilver
Summary: AU - James Fitzjames, former ward of Sir John Franklin, is a first class passenger on the RMS Erebus maiden voyage, with an arranged marriage waiting for him at the end of it. Francis Crozier is down in steerage, hoping America will be a fresh start. Nothing goes as planned.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/gifts).



> I could not have gotten this into a publishable state without Ias's assistance and support, and I'm extremely grateful.
> 
> This fic has a companion fanmix. It's very silly and you can listen to it here: https://open.spotify.com/user/myfavoritedemons/playlist/3FEHMSZj5yUbMLdxGz7Q5u?si=lNjOQPeLRL2gJsmu6_hw1g

It’s a chilly day in April when they arrive in Southampton for the launch. Sir John is busy arguing with the steward about the handling of their luggage when James Fitzjames exits the car. He stretches to his full height for a moment, enjoying the freedom of movement. The sun makes him squint as he takes in the sight of the RMS Erebus. The ship looms above them, a behemoth of iron and smoke, already teeming with passengers though it doesn’t sail for hours yet. 

James knows he ought to be awed by the scale of it, but at the moment the Erebus feels very much like a particularly impressive floating cage. He’ll board of his own free will, but when it arrives in America there will be no escaping Sir John’s plans. 

“What are you thinking, my boy?” Sir John asks. James bristles slightly at the question. He’s been his own man for years, but Sir John still treats him as if he’s the same gangly 8 year old he was when he became the man’s ward.

“Just that I can’t help but feel that at a certain point, size becomes irrelevant,” he replies. It won’t do to let his former guardian see his melancholy. “I can’t see any difference between this and the Arkham.”

“You’ve lost your sense of wonder, James,” Sir John chides. “The Erebus is the pinnacle of nautical engineering. It’s a privilege to participate in her maiden voyage, even as passengers.”

“Of course, Sir John,” James replies. “My apologies. It was a long trip from London.”

Sir John’s hand rests on James’s elbow. His kindly smile turns James’s stomach.

“I’m proud of you, James. Our Lord is undoubtedly proud of you. It takes courage to do as you’ve done, and turn aside from a path of vice. She’s a fine woman. In a few years, god willing, you’ll have children of your own, and you’ll have forgotten these ‘fancies’ of yours.”

James nods, smiles, tries not to think of what awaits him on the other side of the ocean as a life sentence. Marriage is meant to be an accomplishment, a sign that he’s on his way to the grand, distinguished career that Franklin has been preparing him for all his life. Instead it feels like a noose around his neck. 

~~~~

“Give us a light, Blanky,” Francis Crozier says, putting a cigarette to his lips.

“Why do you never carry your own?” Thomas asks, but hands him his matchbox all the same. 

“Well, then I’d miss the way you grouse over the loss of a match, wouldn’t I?” Francis retorts. He leans against the railing, enjoying his smoke, soaking up the last of the sun’s warmth as it starts to dip close to the horizon. It still doesn’t feel real, that he’s finally going to America. He’s not fool enough to believe the stories about streets paved in gold, but according to a cousin “there’s more Irishmen here in New York City than in all of Dublin” and he’s optimistic about finding work. 

“Can I trouble you fine gentlemen for a cigarette?” someone asks. The speaker is a younger man, red haired, with a grin Francis would call ‘insouciant’ if he felt like showing off his hard-earned education, and ‘a bit too cheeky’ if he felt like playing up his roots. The public school toffs he usually does portraits for always enjoy feeling as though they’re saving him from destitution by blessing him with their patronage, and though it irritates him, he does his best to benefit from it.

“No trouble,” Francis says, passing the pack over. “I’m Francis, this is Thomas.” They shake hands. 

“Cornelius,” he replies. “Pleasure. Thanks for this,” he gestures to his cigarette. “I didn’t know I was taking this trip until today, I barely packed.”

“How’s that?” Thomas asks.

“Oh, I won the tickets in a game of cards, if you can believe it,” Cornelius says. “Had to run over from the pub, I nearly missed the launch.”

“You must have an excellent poker face,” Francis says. Cornelius grins again.

“I like to think so.”

The conversation pauses when a staff member walking three curly little spaniels passes them by. He stops to let the dogs relieve themselves on the railing and then continues on, unhurried.

“Just reminds us where we rank, in the scheme of things,” says Hickey, but he’s still smiling. It’s starting to grate on Francis. “Still, I’d rather be down here with you lot than up there with prigs like that.” Hickey motions with his thumb to a man on the upper deck, dressed formally in white tie and tails. The stranger stares out at the horizon, striking a handsome profile.

Francis’s gaze must linger for a moment too long, because Thomas is elbowing him in the side, muttering.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” Francis says, but he’s hard pressed to keep a grin off his face.

“I’ve know you too long to not know what you like, Francis,” says Thomas. “I also know half the reason you couldn’t get portrait work in London anymore is because you’ve started to develop a distinct aura of disrepute.”

“Oh really,” Francis says. “And the other half?”

“Is that you’re an ornery old cunt.”

“Now there you might be right,” he replies, and takes a drag off his cigarette.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes all of James’s energy to keep Sir John and Lady Jane (who arrived separately with her own luggage) from noticing his ill humor at dinner. At another time, the pristine splendor of the first class dining room might have cheered him. Everything from the hand-carved chairs to the molded ceilings to the leaded glass windows is exquisitely made. The whole room has been fitted with electric sconces and the effect of their glow would surely be enchanting, were he not so distracted by his current circumstances. He smiles and he flatters and he tells engaging stories of his visits with the Franklins to Hong Kong, but it’s taxing. A number of Sir John’s associates are making the voyage as well, and they’ve all seated themselves together, one big convivial company of high society.

He’s familiar with the Rosses, of course. John Ross is the managing director of the North Star Line. He’s accompanied by his nephew, James. The pair of them are what Lady Jane considers ‘new money,’ though all that means to her is that they’ve acquired their wealth sometime since the reign of Henry Tudor. James considers the Rosses more tolerable than most. Both men can be counted on to be sharply dressed and well informed, and James Ross in particular is a refreshingly candid conversationalist on matters of politics, gossip, and even social reform, but the way the younger Ross peers at him tonight across the table makes James certain that he knows, somehow, about the real reason for their trip.

He must be going mad. Sir John would never have allowed the subject of his shame to leave the walls of their home, and no one else knows. James picks halfheartedly at his Roast Surrey Capon with Jacket Potatoes, and tries not to squirm under the man’s gaze. He feels like a surly teenager again, instead of a man in his prime, and he loathes it.

Also at the table are Harry Goodsir, chief architect of the Erebus, and Silna, an Inuit woman whose memoirs on guiding Robert Peary through the polar regions have made her something of a celebrity among those aristocrats who enjoy vicariously indulging in adventure tourism. James has heard rumours that the two of them are involved in some torrid affair, but upon seeing their interaction in person, it’s clearly malicious gossip. Harry is kind and attentive to Silna, and perhaps even a little bit in love with her, but the way he restrains himself from ever touching her or encroaching on her space makes James think that whatever his feelings, they are unreturned.

He tries not to think of his own unrequited feelings from his school days, the way that the casual affection of other boys always eluded him. Deciding that if he couldn’t have that easy comradeship with his peers, he would make himself obliging to his teachers instead. Better to develop a reputation for being a bit of a brown-nose than not to be remembered at all.

“What do you think?” John Ross asks him, making James realize he’s been nodding along for several minutes without really paying attention. “They’re calling the Erebus a marvel.”

“It’s always a marvel to me when so many tons of steel and iron can stay afloat,” James replies. “Sea travel makes me nervous, to tell you the truth.”

“Oh, the Erebus is unsinkable,” Sir John interjects. “Divine providence has blessed Mr. Goodsir with inspiration, and he has seen fit to share his vision with the rest of us.”

“I don’t know that I would put it in that way,” Goodsir demures. “But I’m most grateful to you for your kind words, Sir John.”

“So, James,” begins the younger Mr. Ross. “Did I hear correctly? You’re engaged?”

James grits his teeth and tries to turn it into a smile.

“I’ve been very fortunate,” he replies. “Lady Jane was able to make the necessary introductions.”

The dinner drags on. James is close to excusing himself, planning on retiring to his rooms where he can revel in his own personal misery, when the worst happens.

“A toast!” Lady Jane says. “To James, and his future happiness!” The company raises their glasses in salute. James’s stomach turns as he grins and raises his own glass in return.

“To Sir John and Lady Jane. I’m forever indebted to you both,” he replies. The conversation continues amiably, but James loses its thread quickly. All he can see is his own life, stretching out in front of him, mapped out since he was a child in order to bolster his guardians’ reputations. He’ll marry, and he’ll father children, and he’ll be elected to Parliament, and he’ll never bare his soul to another human being. Never do a single thing for the simple pleasure of his own satisfaction.

“If you’ll excuse me a moment,” James says, standing. Sir John barely looks up as he nods his assent.

 

~~~

 

James stares down into the black water below. Leaving the dining hall, he’s wandered along the deck of the ship towards the stern, curiously numb to the cold he knows he should be feeling keenly. On a whim pushes himself up and over the railing, and then lets himself hang there, suspended off the back. The propeller below slices through the waves like a massive knife. He leans forward. A coherent thought emerges from the cacophony in his head. He could just let go. Maybe no life at all is better than the one waiting for him back inside. What a miserable thing he is, not stoic enough to suffer his shame in silence, not brave enough to break free from his guardian’s influence. He should just let go.

‘ _Sir John will be so disappointed in me_ ,’ he thinks.

“What the sweet fuck do you think you’re doing?” There’s a strange man standing behind him, hands in his pockets. His accent marks him as Irish, his clothes as someone from steerage.

“Go away,” James pleads. “It isn’t your business.”

“It’s a bit late for that,” the man says. He’s older than James. His face is red from the cold, but he sheds his jacket and lays it over a bench. “If you jump and I do nothing, they’ll say I as good as pushed you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous-” James starts.

“I’m not!” the man snaps. “You think anyone will care that you didn’t want saving when your mangled body is fished out of the water?”

“You’re not needed here-” James says, but the other man continues as if he hasn’t heard.

“What I can’t figure out, is how a fine, upstanding gentleman such as yourself,” the man’s voice is heavy with sarcasm. “could possibly think his life was so terrible that death was the only option.”

“How dare you!” James replies. “You don’t know anything about me.”

The man nods.

“True enough. But,” he steps closer. “I know that no problem a man can possibly have could be worth slowly freezing to death in the middle of the ocean.”

James tightens his grip on the railing, looks down again. It’s a long way down.

“Surely the fall will kill me?” James asks. He hates his voice for cracking. The other man shakes his head.

“Not likely from this height. You’re more likely to end up treading water with broken leg until the cold does you in.” Then, considering, “Though, to be frank, you don’t strike me as an...outdoors...sort of fellow. You might not be able to stay afloat long enough to freeze.”

James gapes at him. The sheer gall of the man. It’s outrageous.

“I’ll have you know I won a championship as coxswain of the Oxford University Boat Club.”

“Ah, of course.” The man’s lip curls. “And sitting in a canoe shouting at other men as they row down a sunny little river has totally prepared you for a horrible death in sub-zero temperatures.”

 _‘That’s it, I’m going to wipe that smug expression right off his face_ ,’ James thinks. It’s not until he’s halfway back over the rail, and the Irishman reaches forward to pull him back onto the ship, that he realizes he’s been tricked.

“Come here, then,” his would-be rescuer says.

“Oh, I...I don’t need help,” he replies, suddenly conscious of the chill in the air, the distance beneath him. Then he missteps and slips slightly, and his stomach drops as he lurches back down a rung. “Ah!” He fights to calm himself, and ruefully accepts the man’s hand. Nearly as soon as James is back on the deck, the enormity of what he almost did to himself rushes in.

“Christ, I-” he’s swaying on his feet, still unsteady.

“Are you all right?” the man asks, his tone turning from mockery to concern. He holds out his hand. “I’m Francis Crozier.” It’s more than he can bear for this complete stranger to have seen him at perhaps his weakest moment. James had thought no shame could be greater than that of Sir John’s disappointment in him, but life seems determined to leave him thoroughly dispirited. James backs away from the offered handshake.

“I’m. They’ll be missing me at dinner,” he stutters. “I have to go.” He leaves the man there, a knot growing in his stomach.


	3. Chapter 3

Francis, (“Not Mr. Crozier, God. Please.”) as he insists on being called, is insufferable. James has invited Francis to come take the air with him, in an attempt to explain himself. The afternoon sun is bright and the light is golden, but this far North there’s still a chill in the air and James finds himself wishing he’d dressed more warmly. As they’ve circled the ship, he’s tried in vain to converse with his rescuer. Walking down the promenade deck together, he can see people eyeing Francis, who couldn’t look more uncomfortable among the upper crust of society if he was actively trying. He sympathizes. 

All eyes had been on him when he descended to steerage, looking for Francis. His inquiries after “Mr. Crozier? Do you know a Mr. Crozier?” had been met with confused responses in a variety of languages, and the relief he’d felt at finally seeing Francis’s face had been palpable. 

Their small talk has dried up quickly, and James can’t get Francis to divulge much more of his life than his place of birth (Banbridge), his occupation (photography), and his views on the weather (“damned cold today”). To fill the silence, James has babbled incessantly about himself, distantly aware he sounds completely vapid and self-interested, but somehow unable to stop. Now, they settle against the starboard railing and take in the view. The ocean stretches out in all directions, unbroken to the horizon.

“I wanted to speak to you,” James says. “In order to thank you for yesterday. For shaking me out of my melancholy, and…” he can’t quite bring himself to speak of it. “And for your discretion.”

Francis shrugs.

“Think nothing of it,” he replies.

“I know what you’re thinking,” James says, quickly. He thinks it of himself often enough. “‘Poor little rich boy, can’t handle the real world.’”

“No,” Francis says. “I wasn’t thinking that. You’re a grown man, not a boy.”

James flushes in embarrassment. This was a colossal mistake.

“You \-- !” he hisses. “I don’t understand it- you are perhaps the rudest man I’ve ever met!”

“Am I?”

“Rude, stubborn, overly familiar... I invited you here to thank you-”

“And instead you’ve insulted me,” Francis looks like he wants to laugh, which only infuriates James further.

“Well, you deserve it!” he says.

“I’m only teasing,” Francis says. He reaches over and pats James on the arm in what he probably means to be a conciliatory gesture, but James just stares at him, peeved. Francis’s hand lingers there, at the crook of James’s arm, and he boldly returns James’s gaze.

“Honestly,” Francis continues. “What was on your mind last night?”

James hesitates, taps a rhythm against the railing. The silence is ringing in his ears. He can’t speak of this. A gull screams. He takes a full breath of salty air, tries to find a delicate way to talk around it. There’s nothing.

“I was discrete then,” Francis says. “You can count on my discretion now, as well.”

It would be nice to think he could, but James has been burned before. He’s all too familiar with men representing themselves as open-minded reformers turning and spitting at the mere mention of inverts like himself. But Francis is standing in front of him, patiently waiting. His eyes are remarkably blue, and James is so tired of pretending. Perhaps it’s worth unburdening himself, even with the risks.

“I’m...of the Uranian persuasion,” says James. “Like Oscar Wilde. Do you know what that means?”

“I can read, yes,” Francis replies, dryly. James looks away from Francis, at the deck beneath them, at his own hand clutching the railing, out at the horizon. His cheeks feel hot.

“My- Sir John. He was my guardian when I was a child. I owe him everything. He found out, and he was furious. He’s arranged a marriage to some poor American girl to try and ‘curb my vices.’”

James sneaks a look at Francis out the corner of his eyes. Here it comes, the familiar sneer, the rush to distance himself from James. But instead-

“Well. I’m more familiar with the supposed ‘sins’ of Mr. Wilde than you might think,” Francis replies, quietly. The whole world seems to narrow to this single conversation. James can’t feel the chill, or hear the waves. All he can hear is his own heartbeat, pounding. All he can focus on is the spark of hope that’s been summoned into his chest.

“What do you think the English hated him for more?” Francis asks. “That he was a sodomite, or that he was an Irishman?” 

James laughs, sharp and short. He claps a hand on Francis’s shoulder. There’s a weight gone from his chest that he didn’t realize was there. 

“Come to dinner, tonight,” James says. “As my guest. Spare me one evening trapped alone with these people.” 

Francis doesn’t say anything. He smiles wanly, and James can see him gearing up to make his excuses. He leans closer to Francis.

“I’ll find you a suit,” he says. “Please. Please come.” He’s more relieved than he can say when Francis nods.

“I’ll be there,” he says.


	4. Chapter 4

As they continue to amble along the promenade, Francis finds himself noticing the glances and glares he’s receiving from other first class passengers less and less. Conversing with James is a singular experience. Francis likes to consider himself a man of the world, but James seems to have lived enough for ten men. He regales Francis with tales of visits to the Continent, to Hong Kong, to Egypt. He’s had a Portuguese nanny and he speaks four languages and he once danced the waltz with a Russian Countess. James has a rich speaking voice, and his broad hands gesture constantly, enhancing each tale with charming flourishes.

Francis allows himself to be carried along by the flow of James’s stories. As the sun sets, they move indoors, wandering down the oak-panelled hallways. Grey light filters in through panes of glass. Francis reaches out absently and trails his finger along the carvings in the walls as they pass a gymnasium, a lounge, a smoking room, and emerge onto the veranda. Then they turn and pass back in the other direction.

“Ah, wait!” Without warning, and in the middle of a sentence, James pauses at one of the first class state rooms and knocks. “He may be able to help with the matter of your suit.” Francis can hear shuffling from within.

“Who?” he asks, just as a man with thick red hair opens the door.

“James!” the man exclaims.

“James,” James replies, mirthfully self aware. “I wonder if I could trouble you for a favor?”

“Yes, of course, come in,” the other James beckons them both inside, barely glancing at Francis, who is suddenly hot with shame.

The quarters of the ultra rich are obscene, easily three times the size of rooms in steerage, and with only one bed per room, but that’s not what’s preying on Francis’s mind.

“This is Mr. Francis Crozier,” James says, gesturing at Francis. “Francis, this is James Ross, an old acquaintance of mine. Francis is to be my guest at dinner this evening. We were hoping to prevail upon you to borrow the appropriate attire for the occasion.”

“Oh yes,” says the other James, finally seeming to notice Francis, giving him a once over. “I imagine he’d fit into something of Uncle John’s. Give me just a moment to- I say, have we met before?”

“No sir, I don’t believe we have,” Francis replies. “I’m sure I’d remember such a distinguished gentleman.”

“Mr. Crozier is a photographer,” James is all smiles and politeness, but he moves closer to Francis. Perhaps he’s noticed how still Francis is holding himself. “Possibly you’ve seen his work exhibited before?”

Francis falls in love a little bit, just then. It’s charming of James to think anyone would want to exhibit his work, regardless of its merits. Nearly all of his portfolio is commercial work, portraits and advertisements. He hardly has the money to waste on shots he can’t sell. Ross shrugs, looking right through him, and goes through the door to the neighboring suite. He truly doesn’t remember, but Francis does.

_An alley behind a pub, after too many ales. Red hair and a fine suit. ‘Aren’t you a handsome one?’ The gravel biting into his knees, a hand in his hair. The other man briskly walking away towards the street before he’d even risen to his feet again. Walking home without bus fare, alone and unsatisfied._

“Are you all right?” James asks, brow furrowed.

“Fine,” Francis says. He is, truly. It’s been so long. He’s known so many other men since that time. There’s no reason to dwell. Ross certainly hasn’t. When he returns with a set of white tie and tails, Francis ducks behind a screen to change while the other men exchange pleasantries about the trip thus far. That it gives him a moment to compose himself is an added benefit.

The clothes are a decent fit, a little long in the trousers and a little tight in the waist, but not noticeably over or under-sized. The fabric is soft and comfortable, except for the starch of the collar. He’s never worn anything so expensive in his life. There’s a distant buzzing anger in the back of his mind, at all this privilege and wealth, so completely inaccessible for people like him. He’s angry too, that an Irish accent and patched clothes can render him invisible even to a man who’s known the feel of his mouth.

“Does it fit?” James asks. Francis steps out from behind the screen and raises his hands in surrender.

“The suit’s done its best, but-”

“I say, you could almost pass for a gentlemen, don’t you think so Fitzjames?” Ross says, probably not even intending the insult.

“You look...very fine,” James says. He’s staring, and the tips of his ears are red. Bless his heart, no wonder he got found out. His face shows every emotion he feels. It’s refreshing, after so many years of intense caution, but also dangerous. Francis coughs and he seems to remember himself, but Ross gives him a sidelong glance. This feels like a powderkeg, stuck in a room with a man he’s had knowledge of and another he’s starting to realize he’d very much like to.

“We’ll see you at dinner then, Mister Ross?” Francis asks, hustling James out of the room.

“Oh, yes, certainly,” Ross replies, but they’re already down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with apologies to the ghost of sir james clark ross, who i'm almost definitely not being fair to.


	5. Chapter 5

“What was that?” James asks as Francis sets a brisk pace away from Ross’s suite. “You left your clothes!” Damn him, he’s right. They’ll have to go back at some point.

“I just...You don’t find that man insufferable?” Francis says. His face feels flushed. He’s never been a good liar. “I needed some air, is all.” He pauses once they’re back on the veranda. The temperature has dropped significantly since the sun set. Stars shine overhead, more than he’s ever seen before. Frustratingly, they’re nearly alone, but not quite. Only a few others walk the deck; most passengers are probably headed inside to make various dinner arrangements.

“You didn’t like him? Ross is a decent fellow,” James says. “He’s a Lib through and through, very open to social reform! Though I must admit, he’s never voiced any sympathy for our sort, even privately. You can hardly fault him for that, though. It’d cost him his career.”

“He-” Francis can’t find words to express how much this bothers him. He pulls James gently, by the elbow, as far from the other passengers as he can without attracting attention. “James, he  _ is _ ‘our sort!’”

“What, James Ross? An invert? Don’t be absurd. I’ve met his wife, she’s absolutely lovely.” 

“James, you’re engaged! You can’t be this naive,” Francis is struggling to keep his voice down. “I’m telling you, he’s a hypocrite. I know it, and I can’t abide it.”

“He’s not bent! How would you even know?” James says. Francis’s mouth goes dry. What can he say?  _ ‘Oh I just happen to have carnal knowledge of a peer of the realm?’  _ or _ ‘Oh, well, he promised me a florin for a suck and then left me high and dry.’  _ or _ ‘I’m not principled like you, I’ve spread my legs for rent money more times than I can count, but I promise I don’t care about  _ your _ fortune, really.’ _

“Don’t ask me that.” he says.

“I  _ am _ asking,” James says.

“James…”

“Please.”

“Photography’s not the most lucrative profession, James. I- Sometimes a man like me has to do what he can to get by. I don’t…”

“You’ve...had him?” James asks. Francis can’t meet his eyes. Not quite, but close enough. The truth shames him even more. And then, “He paid you?” James pulls away from Francis just the slightest bit.   


“I don’t want you to think...That’s not...That’s not what I want from you.” He can’t help himself, he reaches out to take James’s hand, stops just short of actually touching. 

“What do you want from me?” James asks, so quiet Francis can barely hear. He feels on the edge of a precipice. Nearly every man he’s ever let touch him has wanted him for his availability, for his  _ discretion _ . Francis knows he’s never been handsome, not even when he was young. And now? Is he still just...convenient?

“Just you,” Francis says, his voice rough. “Just your company.” There’s an awful second of silence and stillness, the longest of Francis’s life. And then James bridges the gap and takes Francis’s outstretched hand in his own. He holds James’s hand just a second longer than is probably safe, running his thumb over the knuckles.

“You have it,” James replies.

‘ _ For now _ ,’ Francis thinks. This thing between them, though new, feels strange and vital and fragile. It’s like nothing he’s experienced before. 

“I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future,” James continues. “I can’t promise you anything, even though I want to. Can’t we just pretend for a bit? That everything will work out?”

Francis nods, his heart sinking.  _ ‘What did you expect?’ _ he thinks to himself.  _ ‘That a man you’d known one day would throw his whole life away to be with  _ you _? A stranger, far past his prime?’ _ He clears his throat.

“Of course we can. What will we do in New York, then?” he asks. He tries to keep his tone jovial. “I hear Central Park is beautiful in Spring.” James smiles. He has such a wonderful smile.

“I’d like that,” he says. “We can rent a boat. Have a picnic.”

“That sounds nice,” Francis says. “You can read some Wilde to me. I might even listen.” James laughs, and Francis’s heart swells to hear that sound again. “Come on, then. We’ll be late to dinner.”


	6. Chapter 6

“That’s Henry Le Vesconte, the richest man on the ship,” James whispers to Francis as they descend the stairs into the dining lounge. And there, that’s Charles Des Voeux and his mistress Katherine. He’s half her age, it’s quite the scandal. Over there is Lady Johanna Barrow. She designs women’s underthings as a hobby; I think she’s delightful. I’m afraid I don’t know her escort.”

Johanna is arm in arm with a handsome young man with a red beard. She leans close to him as he whispers something in her ear, and then throws back her head to laugh.

“I do,” Francis replies. He chuckles. “I’m not the only interloper from third class here tonight.” He inclines his head, and the stranger does the same. “Mr. Hickey.” There’s something smug about this Hickey’s smile that James doesn’t care for, but then he spots Sir John and Lady Jane coming towards them, and all other thoughts are forgotten.

“James!” Sir John says. “We’ve not seen you all day. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

“Just getting reacquainted,” James says. “This is Mr. Francis Crozier, an old friend.” Francis glances at him sidelong. “Francis, may I present my dear guardians, Sir John Franklin and his wife, Lady Jane.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Crozier,” Lady Jane says.

“Likewise,” says Francis. He does a creditable job of shaking hands with Sir John and kissing Lady Jane’s hand. Only James notices how fixed his smile is, how little of it reaches his eyes. James clears his throat.

“Francis is an artist,” he says. “A photographer.”

“And where do you hail from?” Sir John asks. “Beyond the obvious, of course. That’s quite an accent you sport, sir.”

“Here and there,” Francis says. “Banbridge, originally, then Sussex, but I’ve lived in London for a long time.”

“Oh yes, whereabouts?” asks Lady Jane.

“Spitalfields,” Francis replies shortly. He seems determined to undermine all of James’s efforts to help him fit in.

“Oh,” Lady Jane says. James watches the last flicker of interest leave her face.

“Shall we sit?” he asks.

He was under no illusions that the Franklins would be instantly charmed by Francis; he certainly wasn’t, and it seems unlikely that anyone ever has been. And yet. It irks James to see them write him off. Francis may be blunt, but he’s also funny, and intelligent, and kind. He’s shown more genuine compassion for James in the last day than his guardians have in their whole lives. James itches to take Francis arm in arm and walk him to his chair, for the whole world to see.

When he first set foot on Erebus, he’d assumed that he’d spend the six days of the voyage retreating into himself, building a refuge at his core where he could keep his true thoughts and feelings. Instead, his burgeoning friendship with Francis has made the idea of such a thing unacceptable. He is not alone, now.

‘I _will never be alone again_ ,’ James decides. _‘I will not leave Francis, when this trip is over. No matter the cost.’_

Francis sticks as close to James as propriety will allow. He looks a bit green at the sight of the dining table. It seats fourteen, and is laden with crystal and china and silver.

“Here,” James whispers. He lets his hand gently steer Francis from the small of his back. “Sit here.” Francis sits, and James takes the chair next to him, on his right. He allows himself to give Francis’s knee a brief reassuring squeeze, out of sight of the others seating themselves at the table. Francis gives him a small, private smile.

Their companions for the evening are filtering in. Sir John takes the seat on James’s other side, with Lady Jane across. Des Voeux and his mistress Katherine join them. Lady Jane’s nostrils flare at being seated next to a ‘loose woman,’ but as Des Voeux has more money than God, she tolerates it. Josephine Barrow and Mr. Hickey seat themselves at the opposite end of the table. She seems thoroughly infatuated with Hickey, but he keeps looking away from the table, for someone James can’t identify.

They’re joined by the Ross’s, including James Clark’s pretty young wife Ann, and the shipping magnate Edward Little. James feels like he’s seeing Ann and her husband in a new light. Does she seem wan? Neglected? Does they younger Ross seem detached? Or is it just his imagination? He’s happy to find Mr. Goodsir and Silna rounding out their party. A waiter comes by to offer them champagne, but Francis waves him off.

“None for me, thank you,” he says. James lets the waiter pour rather more than is necessary in his own glass. He keeps checking on James Ross across the table, waiting for him to realize just where he knows Francis from, for the other shoe to drop. Does he really not remember? It’s inconceivable to James. How could anyone forget Francis Crozier?

“You’re here at my invitation, Francis,” he says. “Feel free to indulge.”

“I tend to abstain these days, but don’t you worry about me, I’ll indulge in other areas.” He says it quite innocently, but an image leaps to mind, of what Francis might look like undressed and indulging in the sort of ‘pleasures’ James has only read about. When Francis came out from behind Ross’s dressing screen, dressed to the nines, he looked every inch a gentleman, Ross be damned. James takes a gulp of champagne and feels his face flush. He’s starving. Francis looks down at the table. “Are all these mine?” he whispers, gesturing at the array of cutlery placed in front of him.

“Just start at the edges and work your way in,” Silna replies, from his left. “I’m Silna. Is this your first time?” She offers her hand for him to shake.

“Francis,” he responds. “I’ve had some fine dinners before but...what is this?” he holds up a large flat spoon with holes in the filigree. James clears his throat.

“It’s a bon bon spoon,” he says. Francis stares at him. “For- for the bon bons.” Francis is still staring. “It’s for serving! We don’t each get one.”

Francis makes a strangled noise.

“Why did I agree to this?” he mutters, putting down the server.

“Because you like me,” James says, emboldened by the champagne. “Because I’m extremely charming and persuasive.” Francis shrugs in response, but he’s smirking. Silna gives a rare smile. They make fast friends, over the first course of consommé. It’s only in watching Francis crack jokes about the obnoxiously overdone centerpieces, which Silna laughs at and then builds upon, that James realizes he hasn’t had a chance to really see Francis in his element.

“So, tell me, Mr. Crozier,” Lady Jane interjects. “What are the second class accommodations like on Erebus?” Francis is mid-bite of a forkful of filet mignon. He takes his time finishing his bite before answering. James waves the waiter over for more champagne.

“I wouldn’t know,” Francis says. “I’m in steerage, ma’am.” There’s an almost imperceptible pause in the surrounding conversations as the table takes in this exchange, and then pleasantries are resumed.

“Well, then, sir,” Mr. Hickey says from across the table. “I’d be very curious to know your opinion of steerage.”

“Would you indeed?” Francis asks. Hickey nods, all earnestness. If Francis hadn’t pointed the man out, James would never have detected the double meaning in Francis’s response.

“What’s it like?” Mr. Hickey asks.

“Oh, sir. The best I’ve seen, truly. Hardly any rats,” Francis says. There’s nervous laughter around the table. “Only the one, really.” Hickey tilts his head slightly.

“And how did you come to join us tonight, sir?” asks Edward Little.

“I’m honored to have Francis here as my guest,” James says. “He’s an old friend.”

“Indeed?” says Sir John, his face clearly registering doubt. “And what are your plans once we dock, Mr. Crozier?”

“Well, to be frank with you sir, I’ll be focused on finding a hot shower and a soft bed.” Francis replies. “Beyond that, I’m a freelancer. I imagine I’ll need to start looking for work.”

“You find appeal in that kind of rootless existence?” Lady Jane asks. Her tone is hard to mistake for polite interest, now. It’s clear that she suspects something is happening. James twists his napkin ring around his finger. She’s always been protective of James, if not especially kind to him.

“I do, ma’am,” Francis says, returning her stare evenly. “There’s something to be said for not having any certainties in life. You learn to make each day count.”

“Here, here!” proclaims Les Vesconte, red in the face from too much sherry. James lifts his glass, and places a hand on Francis’s shoulder.

“To making it count,” he toasts.

“To making it count!” the table joins in, some more enthusiastically than others. Francis raises his water glass, modestly. Suddenly, there’s a clatter, which turns out to be James Clark Ross dropping his glass and turning red in the face.

“Are you all right dear?” asks Ann. Ross feigns a cough, but he can’t take his eyes off Francis.

Emboldened, James keeps his hand on Francis’s shoulder and lets it linger long past what is appropriate. Ross’s eyes slide over to him. He grins, maintaining a fierce eye contact with Ross.

‘ _You had this and you lost it, and now he’s mine,_ ’ James thinks. ‘ _He’s mine._ ’ They’ve drawn the gaze of others. Sir John’s eyes linger on James’s hand as he finally lets go of Francis, and a small frown furrows his brow. James says a brief prayer to whomever is listening that the rest of dinner manages to pass without significant incident.

~~~

“Well, ladies, we shall miss your company, but I think it’s time to retire to the Smoking Room for the evening,” says Mr. Des Voeux, rising from the table. “Will you gentlemen join me for a brandy?”

“So soon, Charlie,” chides Katherine. He bends down and kisses her hand.

“I won’t be late, I promise.”

“Will you join us, Mr. Crozier?” asks Edward Little. He probably fully intends the invitation, bless him. How the man got as far as he has in business while maintaining a sterling reputation, James cannot begin to guess. A surfeit of luck, perhaps.

“Do come with us,” Hickey chimes in, less sincerely. The man has been fascinating to watch, as the evening has worn on. He’s ingratiated himself well with the company at his end of the table, dodging answering anything personal, telling jokes that make the whole table roar with laughter.

“You’re very kind, sirs, but I’ll be catching up on some needed sleep,” says Francis. He rises. “James, thank you for dinner.” He extends his hand, and upon grasping it James feels a slip of paper pressed into his palm.

“Are you coming?” Sir John asks.

“I- ah. I thought I might press Miss Silna for a few more of her stories,” James says. He fights to appear unflustered. “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. I’ll see you at breakfast,” Sir John replies. He helps Lady Jane up from the table and they make their exit.

James waits until they’ve left to unfold the paper, which reads: ‘If you’d really like to make it count, meet me at the clock in ten minutes.’


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the delay in getting this chapter up, hope you enjoy!

Francis has undone and redone the buttons on his sleeve five times at his last count. It’s fifteen minutes since he passed the note to James with his handshake, and Francis’s mind has been relentlessly punishing him for being so bold.

_ ‘You’ve overstepped, and made assumptions you had no right to make. Falling for the first man to smile at you, like some idiot schoolboy. What could you possibly offer him? Even if he does come, what’s to stop the two of you from being caught? And then you’ll have ruined this man’s life,’ _ he thinks.

Francis’s heart had skipped a beat when, at dinner, Ross had finally placed him. And then James’s grip on his shoulder had tightened, thumb tracing his clavicle, and his heart felt like it had stopped altogether. It had taken an act of will not to lean into the touch. Another time, he might have, but Sir John’s gaze had been too perceptive for his liking. James’s lack of caution is thrilling, verging on terrifying. He doesn’t know if it’s born of naivete or of courage, but he likes it.

It brings to mind when James had ventured down to steerage in search of him this morning. At the time, it had seemed too good to be true. They’d parted so awkwardly the night before, James backing away from Francis’s proffered handshake and disappearing back into the first class section. Francis had been sure he’d seen the last of the handsome man, but there he was, decked out in a dark blue suit, hair perfectly styled, awkwardly weaving through the crowds without an ounce of discretion.

_ “Mr. Crozier? Does anyone here know a Mr. Crozier? Anyone? Please?” _ he’d asked, and when Francis had finally taken pity on him and made his way over, his embarrassed smile had lit up the room.

The clock at the top of the grand staircase is beautifully made, set in an oak wood panel carved with flowers interwoven around pillars, but Francis is trying not to stare at it for too long. It’s been twenty minutes, now. He was wrong, he can see that now. He’s misunderstood what James wanted from him. Blanky is never going to let him hear the fucking end of it.

“Francis?” comes James’s voice, from behind. Francis turns, cuffs half buttoned. James is smiling that same embarrassed half-smile again. Francis wants to kiss him very, very badly. “I’m sorry to make you wait. I thought Miss Silna deserved to tell at least one of her stories, since I made her an accomplice to my excuse.”

“It’s fine,” says Francis, maybe too quickly. “I’m so glad you came, James. Now, would you like to see a real party?”

* * *

 

The festivities are in full swing when they arrive at the dining hall relegated to those in steerage. A hodgepodge group of musicians have gotten together, and are playing a rollicking reel that reminds Francis of home, though it’s competing to be heard over the din of the crowd, as the room is packed with revelers of all nationalities. Francis’s stomach turns at the omnipresent smell of beer. He’s not had a drink in some time, and he can trust himself around others when they’re drinking, but the smell always reminds him of some of the worst years of his life. He takes James’s elbow for support as they walk in. With luck it’ll be too crowded for anyone to notice.

This isn’t, if he’s being honest with himself, the way he normally spends his evenings. He’d prefer to be curled up in his room with a cup of tea, arguing with Thomas about politics or art or sport, but that dinner upstairs was absolutely dismal. He’s going to show James a good time before their trip is over. The poor man deserves it. 

And now here comes Thomas Blanky, shoving his way through the crowd, a pint in one hand.

“Francis, you’re back!” he says, and then takes in the two of them, still decked out in white tie and tails. “What the fuck are you wearing? And who is this?” 

“Thomas Blanky,” Francis says, “this is James Fitzjames. We met yesterday evening, and he invited me to join him for dinner. James, Thomas is my oldest friend.” James smiles and puts out his hand to shake. Thomas takes it as if he’s afraid it might turn into a snake in his palm.

“A pleasure,” James says smoothly, and in a voice that probably charms most people he meets. The effect it has on Thomas, an ardent socialist and card-carrying member of the International Working Men's Club, is...not that. He turns to Francis.

“Are you having a laugh?” he asks. Francis rolls his eyes.

“Thomas,” he sighs. “I obviously wouldn’t have brought him if he was a prat, would I?”

“I’m-” James tries to interject.

“You might have,” Thomas retorts. “You do tend to fall for prats.”

“I do not!” Francis can feel himself turning red.

“I’m right here,” James practically has to shout to be heard over the music. They both turn to look at him. “I’m not a prat. I think. Maybe a ponce.”

There’s a tense moment where no one speaks, and then Thomas laughs.

“Well, a ponce is all right. If Francis likes you, I’ll try and reserve judgment. Come have a drink,” he says. “Tom Jopson’s found a table by the wall.” They elbow their way through the crowd. Tom is sitting fully on top of a table to guard it from intruders when they arrive. He’s the quietest of their band of misfits, but he has a light in his eyes that warns folks who may be intent on poaching their chairs not to try anything. Of all of them, he probably has the best job prospects once he lands in New York, carrying letters of reference from several families he’s done domestic work for in London. 

“All right, Francis, Thomas?” he greets them. Francis nods and makes James’s introduction again. Tom isn’t half as prickly as Blanky when he takes James’s hand and shakes it. “Good to meet you,” he says. “I’ve got a ginger beer for Francis, can I get you something?” 

“I’ll have whatever you’re drinking, thank you,” James says.

* * *

 

“So,” Thomas says. “Which parent did you piss all over as a babe to make them saddle you with a name like ‘James Fitzjames?”

“I wouldn’t know,” James says. He takes another deep swig of his beer. “I never met them. Sir John adopted me from the London Boy’s Home when I was eight.” Thomas blanches and Tom punches him in the arm.

“You git,” Tom says.

“Ah, fuck. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“No no,” James waves him off. Everyone except Francis is a few beers in, and Thomas and James have started to finally relax around each other. “It’s fine. I’m lucky, actually. There’s worse things in life than having a name that sounds like a bad pun. I’m lucky. Very lucky.” 

“Well, that part’s true, at least,” Tom Jopson says, pouring more beer into his glass. No one’s better at putting people at ease than Tom. If he had the capital for it, he’d be an excellent barkeep. “Because now you’ve met us.” James beams.

“I have! It’s been a delight, gentlemen. I hope to have the pleasure of your company at least a few times more before we reach our destination,” he says. “And perhaps,” he seeks out Francis’s gaze and holds it. “We need not part ways in New York?” 

Francis sputters, tries not to choke on his ginger beer. Just a few hours ago, James said he couldn’t give him any guarantees, and Francis had tried to make his peace with that. Now it seems he’s changed his mind.

‘ _ A man will promise all sorts of things, once he’s had a few _ ,’ his thoughts whisper.  _ ‘Don’t get your hopes up.’ _

“I cannot tell you,” James continues rambling to the table. “How grateful I am to have met Francis. He’s a true friend. He saved me.” The others nod. They may not understand James’s exact meaning, but Thomas glances at him sideways, smirking. Francis can feel himself trying to sink into his seat and disappear.

“I’ll toast to that, comrades,” Thomas raises his glass. He must know how embarrassed the attention is making Francis, the utter bastard. “To Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier, the truest friend...truest man I know.” Tom and James clink beers with him.

“To Francis!” they chime. Francis tries to force himself to die of sheer discomfort. It doesn’t work.

“Moira?” James asks, laughing.

“It’s a family name,” Francis says, curtly.

“And it’s a lovely one,” James says, and then, “Dance with me?” He stands up and holds out his hand. Francis stares.

“I don’t. I can’t. James, we can’t,” he says. “And I don’t.”

“I’m not asking you to dance a waltz, Francis,” James says. “I’m not an idiot. Look, there’s a line dance forming. Come with me!”

“He’s a lost cause, son,” Thomas says. “Francis wouldn’t dance at his own wedding.”

“Go enjoy yourself,” Francis says to James. “Really. I’m fine.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” James says. He lingers a moment longer, then nods and heads over to join the dancers. Francis follows James with his eyes as the younger man weaves his way through the crowd. He’s light on his feet, and ends up making the rounds with several young ladies, but his eyes keep straying back to Francis.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Thomas asks. Francis shakes his head.

“When have I ever?” he says.

“All right. Just so’s we’re clear,” Thomas lights a two cigarettes and passes one to Francis. “He’s sweet on you, you know.” Francis sighs.

“I don’t know, Thomas. I think maybe he’s just happy to have someone to talk to.”

“No,” Tom Jopson chimes in. “He’s definitely sweet on you.”

“Even if he is, what can I possibly offer a man like that?” Francis says.

“I can think of a couple of things,” Thomas says, a glint in his eye. “Come on Tom, if Francis is determined to sulk, can I interest you in a rematch?”

“You’re on,” Tom says. He unbuttons his right shirt sleeve and rolls it up past his elbow. Thomas does the same, and they resume the ongoing arm wrestling competition that’s been occupying them for literally weeks. 

* * *

 

“All right, best three out of five?” Tom asks, panting. Blanky laughs.

“I thought you said best two out of three, lad,” he says. Tom shrugs and takes another sip of beer.

“That was before you’d won twice,” he responds. “This time, I know your tricks.”

They’re both red-faced from exertion, with Thomas holding his ground against Tom’s efforts, when James steps in. His hair is falling in his face and he’s flushed, though probably more from dancing than from drink. It’s very fetching. He has an impish grin when he plucks the cigarette from Thomas’s mouth and takes a drag. Blanky is so dumbfounded that he forgets himself and Tom presses his advantage, pinning Thomas’s arm easily.

“Wahey!” Tom crows. “I told you!”

“So, you think you’re big, tough men?” James asks. “Let’s see you do this. Francis, hold this.” Francis reaches out and takes Thomas’s cigarette back from him.  

He shakes his head to flick his hair out of his face, then puts his arms straight out from his sides. Holding his body ramrod straight, he lifts his left leg in the air, slowly, until it’s sticking straight out in front of him at a ninety degree angle. Then, grunting with exertion, he swings his torso forward and his leg back until he’s parallel to the floor. For a second, he balances perfectly. Thomas and Tom both applaud. Then, face red, he starts to sway. 

James swings back upright, but overcorrects and falls toward Francis, who reaches out for him. He ends up steadying himself against the shorter man, leaning down, hands gripping Francis’s upper arms. James laughs, his breath hot against Francis’s neck.

“Are you all right?” Francis asks. James nods, panting.

“Gymnastic lessons. I haven’t done that in years.”

Francis pats him on the shoulder.

“Maybe you should sit down for a bit,” he says. James shakes his head.

“I forgot why I came over here,” he says. “But I’ve remembered. You’re a photographer.”

“Yes?”

“I want you to take my portrait,” James says. He’s still leaning against Francis for support. His jacket has disappeared at some point, and his tie is loose. 

“All right, James,” Francis says. “I can do that. When-”

“Right now. In my room,” James says. Francis swallows hard. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Francis whispers. Then, to his friends, “I’m going...to get my camera equipment...so I can take James’s portrait.” Tom and Thomas look like they’re fighting not to laugh. Thomas waves him off. James grabs his arm.

“Let’s go, then,” he says.


	8. Chapter 8

Francis has braced himself to be frustrated all over again, for James’s staterooms to be infuriatingly luxurious, but upon entering his attention is taken up wholly by a large painting resting on one of the settees. He forgets to be annoyed.

“Is that...what is that?” he asks, peering closer. It’s a spectacular piece; white snow flurries around a stooped figure in the foreground. It’s a man wrapped head to toe in cold weather gear, fighting the elements. In the back, against a dark sky, a ramshackle tent is visible. The cold light pervading the painting makes a chill run up Francis’s spine, for reasons he can’t fully comprehend. 

“Oh, do you like it? I think Dollman’s marvelous,” James says from behind him as he studies the piece. “It’s supposed to be poor old Scott’s expedition. I find it all fascinating.”

“I don’t know if ‘like it’ is the right phrase, exactly,” Francis replies. There’s the sound of rustling cloth.

“Francis.” James says. Francis turns around and the sight that greets him almost makes him drop his camera case.

James has stripped to the waist. The soft lights of the cabin illuminate the slope of his neck, his narrow shoulders. His hair frames his face. He’s lovely. Francis breathes out slowly. His hands are shaking.

“I was thinking of something classically inspired, for my portrait,” James says. His eyes have mischief in them, and he reaches for the buttons on his trousers. “Have you ever seen the Barberini Faun?”

“Only pictures,” Francis says, as more of James is revealed. His mouth feels so dry. 

Fully nude, James reclines on a chaise. He raises one knee and lets the other leg dangle off the edge, then raises an arm behind his head. The Barberini Faun is a masterwork, a languid, muscled youth half dozing, laid back in the most vulnerable pose, his mouth half open and his legs spread. James settles into the position, Francis expects him to look obscene, but the effect is something else entirely. Against the red velvet of the chaise, James is practically glowing. The faun is meant to be asleep, but James’s gaze is so direct, Francis feels as if he’s the one being undressed. 

“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asks. James’s eyes flit away, seemingly self-conscious.

“Yes,” he says. James licks his lips. He has a nervous energy. “For perhaps the first time in my life.” Francis looks down and away, focuses his attention on undoing the latch of his camera case and taking the device out. He scrutinizes the lense for dust he knows isn’t there. If this is going any further, he has to be certain. Francis is tired of being the regrettable lapse in other men’s judgment. 

“I’ve...known...younger men before, who want to rebel from their comfortable lives. The sort of men who dally with men like me tend-”

“Like you?” James asks softly.

“Rough trade. You know, surely. Too often, they end up regretting their actions. I’d not have a scandal following you around for the rest of your days,” Francis says, but damned hypocrite that he his, he starts winding the film forward in his camera. “Are you sure, James?”

James nods slightly. Something in Francis’s chest flutters.

“Look at me, then,” he orders. “And hold still.”

Francis takes a second to check the view through the lense. With a layer of glass between him and his subject he relaxes slightly, allows himself to really look at James, at  _ all _ of James. He imagines kissing that long throat, running his hands down James’s chest to his trim hips, and then his gaze dips still further, to a place Francis very badly wants to put his mouth. James’s thigh twitches, probably from bracing himself in the position he’s chosen.

“More-” Francis coughs, clears his throat. “More light. I need to light you better. Hang on.” He gets up and surveys the room, which boasts no less than four brand new electric lights. One of them is a desk lamp on a cord. Francis lifts it and brings it closer, lighting James from below; the shadows that spring up do marvelous things to his . profile. James looks up at him through absurdly lovely eyelashes.

“Is that better?” James asks. What if he abandoned this entire pretense and just leaned down and kissed the man? 

_ ‘And what if this really is meant to be nothing more than a portrait session?’ _ the worst and most treacherous part of his brain asks. It’s very hard to ignore. Francis nods, then returns to his spot, kneeling a few feet away from the chaise. He peers through the camera lense again.

“I’ll, um. You’ll need to raise the other knee, to cover…” Francis waves his hand. How he’s turned modest at his age is ridiculous. He’s seen and done things that would surely make this man blush, but he can’t hide himself away behind his camera the way he usually does. Or, perhaps he could, but he doesn’t want to. 

“Whatever for?” James asks. If anything, he spreads his thighs a little wider, slides a little lower in the chair.

“Well, I mean. If you wanted to display it. The photo,” Francis says.

“You think this is for my benefit? I want you to keep it,” James says. His tone is flirtatious, but Francis’s heart is pained.

“To remember you by,” he whispers. “I’d like that.” James sits up, dismay on his face.

“No, you stubborn...I mean yes, but only when I’m away! I told you I wanted to stay in your company, in New York. Didn’t you listen?” he asks. 

“Your guardian-”

“Sir John can...can go to hell,” James says. “I can’t believe we found each other, Francis. It seems to me the most unlikely of miracles.” Francis doesn’t bother trying to hide the grin that he can feel spreading across his face. He’s never felt so fucking glad to be wrong.

“Oh hell, never mind me. I thought it was the drink talking, is all. I can’t tell you how glad I am to be proven wrong,” he replies. “Now, get back into your pose so I can take this shot. Arm down. Chin up….there. You’re perfect.” 

* * *

 

While Francis’s back is turned, James tries to steady his nerves. 

“‘The first time,’” Francis says, as if to himself. Having taken shots of James from several angles, he’s now packing his camera away. James still reclines on the chaise, trying to muster his courage for step two of his terribly cunning attempt at seduction. Theoretically, he ought to be putting his clothes back on, but that isn’t really conducive to the goal of step two. He props himself up to see Francis better.

“Hm?” James asks. His arm is starting to ache from how long Francis asked him to hold the pose. He almost suspects Francis of prolonging the shoot in order to enjoy the view.

“You said you know what you’re doing, ‘for the first time’,” Francis repeats. 

“Mm,” James hums noncommittally. That was emphatically not in the plan. He hadn’t meant to be quite so candid about his experiences, or lack thereof, with other men.

“It’s all right, you know,” Francis says. “To not be-”

“I know it’s all right,” James replies, perhaps too quickly.

“Well, good then.” 

“Yes, it is.”

“Right,” Francis says. There’s an awkward silence. “How’d he find out about you, then? Sir John?”

“Were you imagining him bursting through the door to my bedchamber?” James asks. “Catching me in flagrante delicto with a strapping young groundsman? A forbidden romance cut terribly short?”

“It’s not such a horrible thing to imagine, I’ll admit. Or particularly difficult to picture, at the moment,” Francis says. For the first time since undressing, James turns shy, suddenly very aware of his own nakedness. “What actually happened?”

“I had...some compromising literature. The maid discovered it and brought it to Sir John.”

“Smutty literature?” Francis raises an eyebrow. 

“I wish I knew where to get smutty literature. No, political literature. From the Order of Thebes. They’re dedicated to-”

“Let me guess,” Francis says, wryly. He snaps his camera case closed. “A group of rarefied gentlemen such as yourself, doing a lot of talking and very little of anything else.”

He looks as though he wants to start another argument, which will not do at all. James stands up and crosses over to him.

“I didn’t invite you back here for ‘a lot of talking,’ Francis.” He runs a hand down Francis’s chest, and toys with the top button of the other man’s trousers. “Just how forward do I need to be, to get you to start taking your clothes off?”

“That’ll-” Francis stumbles over the words. “That’ll do. Quite nicely.” James starts to unbutton Francis’s shirt. He can’t get one of the buttons to cooperate, and curses under his breath. Francis lays a hand over his, and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“God,” James says. “I have wanted this.”

“Wanted this,” Francis repeats. “With me.”

“Yes,” James laughs. “Of course, ‘with you.’” Francis looks doubtful. James takes Francis’s empty hand and cups it against himself. He’s half hard already, just from the way Francis’s eyes keep dipping down and then away, like he’s afraid of being caught.  Francis’s eyelids flutter. “You think I’m unwilling?” James asks.

“No, only...I want to be sure you know what you’re asking,” Francis says.

“You’re a damned idiot, Francis,” James says. “I may not have your experience, but I know my own mind.” He moves closer, to whisper in Francis’s ear. “I want you inside me.”

Francis sighs. His hand moves to pull James in close. James closes his eyes, savors the sensation of his skin flush against Francis, firm and warm.

“We’ve neither the time nor the means to prepare you for that, more’s the pity,” he says. James frowns. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t mind if it hurts,” James says, trying to sound calmer than he feels.

“I mind.” Francis presses a kiss to James’s throat. “But rest assured, there’s other ways to have me at your mercy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter references two real pieces of artwork: one is 'a very gallant gentleman' by john charles dollman, which can be viewed here [ https://www.art.com/products/p9788659211-sa-i5569993/john-charles-dollman-a-very-gallant-gentleman-1913.htm ] and the other is colloquially known as the barberini faun, and can be viewed here [ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FMY9z7gQHYw ]


	9. Chapter 9

Francis drops to his knees, and presses a kiss to James’s bare hip. His head is slightly bowed, his breath is hot against James’s skin. James inhales sharply at the sight of him submitting to this particular kind of indiscretion. He’s known, abstractly, since Francis admitted to laying with men for coin, that very few of those men were likely to be paying to give fellatio. He runs a hand through Francis’s soft hair, cups the back of his head. 

“You don’t have to,” he says. “I. I won’t pretend I haven’t thought about this, but I wouldn’t ask you to demean yourself.” 

Francis doesn’t look up, doesn’t reply at first, just takes hold of James’s hips with both hands and presses a second scalding kiss to the skin just below his navel. 

“I see your fancy friends have some old fashioned ideas about sucking cock,” Francis says. “Trust me, I’m not about to do anything I won’t thoroughly enjoy.” Then Francis stops talking in order to run his tongue the entire length of James’s prick, from base to head. James gasps and tightens his grip on Francis’s hair. This alone is almost too much, and James lets his head fall forward, giving Francis his full attention. When Francis takes him in his mouth it is an experience incomparable to any James has had before, and the moan that eases out of his mouth is low and long. He resists the urge to thrust hard into the wet heat of Francis’s mouth, but only barely. It’s a relief to be on the receiving end of this; James imagines he’d be paralyzed with the fear of performing poorly if their places were exchanged. As it is, he feels as though Francis is, in some ways, taking him under his wing. The pace Francis sets is slow, deliberate, and maddening. It’s nothing at all like James’s teenage experiments with self gratification. 

“Good God,” James mumbles. Francis makes a humming noise in the back of his throat that vibrates right through James’s whole body. It sounds entirely too self-satisfied, the bastard. He looks up at James, and winks. It’s all James can do to stand upright and hold on as Francis speeds up the pace at which he first envelops James’s cock and then pulls back, again and again until James feels dizzy. He finds himself utterly at the mercy of the older man, but he’s not worried. With Francis he feels safe and secure. Everything he’s read from The Order has been entirely wrong-headed about this act. There’s no shame, no submission in being the one to give. It’s the kneeling party with all the control here. James couldn’t stop the jerk of his hips if he even wanted to and oh God he does not want to. He can feel his climax building embarrassingly quickly, an all too familiar heat in his belly that will spread through him like wildfire if he lets it. He gently squeezes Francis’s shoulder. 

“Francis,” he gasps. “Wait, I’m going to, hhnnn. I’m going to come before you’re even undressed.” 

Francis pulls back, wiping spit from his chin, and James whines as he feels the cool air against his hot skin.  

“We can’t have that,” Francis rasps. “Get on the bed for me.”

James walks himself backwards until the edge of the mattress hits the back of his thighs and he lets himself fall onto his bed in his eagerness to comply. He grips at the blanket under him, restless. Ideas about what Francis might look like beneath his clothes have been flitting through his mind since dinner, and he is eager to see if his speculations are near to the mark. He watches as Francis pulls off his suspenders, then begins to unbutton his shirt.

“Touch me again,” James begs. “Come here and touch me.” 

“I’m a little busy,” Francis says. He laughs as he pulls his shirt off, and his undershirt, revealing a solid expanse of pink, freckled skin where James yearns to press his lips. “Touch yourself. Let me see how you like it.” Francis watches, his gaze hooded, as James groans and takes his cock in hand. He starts to stroke, trying to match the pace that Francis’s mouth set. He’s still wet with Francis’s spit, and the thought of what might be done to him next has him dazed. James bites his the inside of his lip.

“Come on,” Francis says, tossing his pants away. “Don’t go quiet on me now, James.” It runs against years of instinct not to keep his cries to himself, but he’d do anything Francis asked of him at this point. 

“Haaah, nnnn,” James pumps his hand up and down slowly. “I need you. You felt so _ good _ , Francis.”

Francis pulls his drawers down and the sight of him, hard and naked, is everything James has been fantasizing about. He realizes after a beat that he’s staring at Francis’s thick, swollen cock with his mouth hanging open, like a prize idiot. That would have split him in half if he’d tried to take it without oil. The thought of it is not entirely a bad one. He imagines himself impaled on the full length of Francis’s cock and his own erection pulses in his hand.

“Christ,” he pants. “Oh fuck, Francis, come here please, I want you so much.”

Francis pulls James forward so quickly that he yelps in surprise. His legs are dangling off the edge of the mattress. Francis grins his crooked smile, then leans down to capture James’s mouth in a kiss. It’s the first time James has ever kissed a man, and he leans up into it, pleased to find it’s not as complicated as he feared. For a time, all they do is kiss, quite chastely, Francis’s lips soft against his own, Francis’s stubble rough against his cheek. Then, emboldened, James probes at Francis’s mouth with his tongue and is rewarded when Francis opens his lips to groan as James slides it inside. Francis pulls back, and for a moment James is nervous again, that he’s done wrong, but then Francis spits into his palm and a second later James feels spit-slick fingers wrap around his prick. He thrusts forward without thinking, acting on instinct. 

“Wait,” he gasps. He tries to look down, to take in all that is happening, and instead smacks his forehead against Francis’s mouth.

“Shit,” Francis yelps.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” James says. He kisses Francis in apology. “I’m sorry. I’m so bad at this. I just wanted-” Francis kisses him again, cutting him off.

“You’re doing just fine, James. You’re a wonder,” he replies. “What were you trying to do?”

“Would you switch places with me and lie back? I want to see you. I want to see everything you’re doing to me.”

“Oh, thank god,” Francis sighs, and rolls over onto his back. He runs a hand across his face. “My knees are killing me.” 

“Come here, old man,” James straddles him, takes Francis’s hands, and puts them on his own hips. Covering Francis’s hands with his own, James begins to move, slowly, enjoying the slick sensation of his cock sliding against Francis’s. Francis groans, finally seeming to be caught up in the heat of things, and his hands dig into James’s sides. James finds himself wishing Francis’s grip was hard enough to leave bruises. The thought of walking around with Francis’s marks on him, hidden under his clothes, goes straight to his prick. 

“Ah, god, I want...I want...I want,” James cries as he thrusts. He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for, exactly. For more friction, for Francis’s cock inside him, for Francis at his side at all times, for...oh, God.

“I know, you greedy thing,” Francis tightens his grip on James’s hip. James shakes his head.

“No,  _ you _ . I want you. I...oh, Francis oh god please I want you, I want you like this. Every day. For the rest of my life. And when we get to New York, I want you to fuck me properly.”

“Christ,” says Francis, eyes wide. “Yes. Of course, yes.” James leans forward, braces himself with one hand on Francis’s shoulder. He spits into the other hand and reaches down, taking hold of both of their pricks. 

“Nnn,” James whimpers. The heat in his groin builds as he fucks into his palm. Without warning, Francis starts to shake, and then he’s spending himself, come striping across his belly. Breathing hard, he reaches between them and covers James’s hand with his own.

“Ah, James,” Francis says. “You’re so eager. So good. Are you mine, then?” It’s this, the thought of being good for Francis, that finally sends him over the edge, toes curling, muscles straining. He realized belatedly that he shouted as he came, and then he lets himself drop into Francis’s waiting arms, heedless of the sticky mess between them. Francis pulls him close and presses an open mouthed kiss to the place where James’s throat curves to meet his shoulder. “I’ll take that as a yes.” James can only murmur his assent. He feels boneless and content. It is only a matter of minutes, wherein they lay there, breathing heavily, lazily touching each other, before James feels himself starting to drift off to sleep. ‘I should clean myself off,’ he starts to think, but the idea of getting up from this bed seems like an impossibility. That’s how Sir John finds them, tangled in a sweaty, naked embrace, on his way back from the smoking room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to renaissancegoth for lending her smut skills to betaing this chapter!


End file.
